


peripeteia

by bibliophilo



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Alternate Universe - The House in Fata Morgana Fusion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Loss, Tragedy, familiarity with fatamoru not required
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliophilo/pseuds/bibliophilo
Summary: The Visitor has lost his memories. The Butler is only too happy to assist.(Aiball Week 2020 Day 3:Amusement/Horror)
Relationships: Ai | Ignis/Fujiki Yuusaku, implied Sugisaki Miyu/Zaizen Aoi
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	peripeteia

The Visitor says little, too frail and disoriented to provide much response to the solicitous Butler fussing about him, offering everything from a mug of hot cocoa to more kindling on the fire.

There doesn’t appear to be anyone else living in the mansion. No sound filters in from any of the other rooms, and the grandeur of the furnishings is buried beneath a thick layer of dust, though the Butler does give the armchair by the fire a vigorous swiping before inviting the weary Visitor to sit.

“Oh my,” the Butler says, when the Visitor has been made welcome. “You don’t remember who you are, do you?”

The Visitor does not.

“No? I suppose I cannot blame you.” The mansion is dark, the fireplace the only source of light half-illuminating the tall figure bent over the armchair. The Visitor can barely make out the Butler’s face, but his voice is not unkind, even understanding of the Visitor’s confusion.

“Some things you _will_ need to remember,” the Butler says, a cryptic smile belying his apologetic tone. “Do you know where you are?”

The Visitor does not.

“It might be easier to show you, rather than explain.” The Butler extends a hand to the figure in the chair. “Please, do not let go of my hand. The mansion can be dangerous to wander in the dark.”

The Visitor asks if the Butler is not in danger himself.

The Butler bends at the waist in an exaggerated bow, the flickering firelight catching his impish grin as he rights himself.

“I have served this mansion for many years,” he says. “You do not need to concern yourself about me.”

Fair enough. The Visitor takes his hand, and, taking up and lighting a candlestick with the other, the Butler leads him through the parlour and out into the hallway. The temperature plummets as soon as the door noiselessly swings shut behind them, and they walk in silence, the soft candlelight seeming to serve more as reassurance for the Visitor than as any sort of visual aid for his guide. Some way down the hall that seems to stretch endlessly in the dark, the light finally falls on an arching iron gate in the wall, the rotting scent of decaying leaves wafting through the slim bars.

There is a pale shape inside; as the Visitor nears, he spots a young man standing alone in the dead garden, stark against the dark brambles that surround him.

This, the Butler explains, is a young man who lost his mother.

* * *

_The man in the garden had an unusual upbringing. He spent his childhood in a small forest, knowing no parent but a tall hollow tree. The tree sheltered him, fed him on dew and fruit, closed her branches about him when predators drew near. Whether she did so out of care for him or his child’s mind interpreted a natural phenomenon as such did not matter._

_When he grew older, he was discovered and taken from his mother, placed among people who were not her, not the trees he had come to know, and though he struggled and fought he was not permitted to return. If he were only stronger, he lamented, he could break free and go home to his mother. He could stay by her side and draw comfort from her loving branches once more._

_Despite his efforts, he did not attain liberty for several years. Finally, having reached an age when he was free to do as he pleased, he hurried back to the forest he had yearned for, only to discover that it, along with his mother, had been cut down._

* * *

Now, the Butler concludes, he resides in the mansion, waiting to meet his mother again.

“Do you remember now?”

The Visitor does not.

“No matter.” In the candlelight, the Butler’s smile widens. “There is more to show you. Do not let go of my hand.”

The Visitor looks back at the still, silent man, grey as a ghost in the decrepit garden, before turning away to follow the guiding hand. They retrace their steps down the hallway and ascend a staircase to the second floor, and the Butler stops before a heavy wooden door, allowing the Visitor time to recover from the climb before pushing it open.

Inside is a lady’s bedchamber, fitted with soft, mouldy furnishings long gone grey. A lamp reveals a young woman seated at the gilded dressing table, her chestnut hair long enough to lie coiled on the tabletop, leaving clear, sweeping trails in the dust. She does not acknowledge their presence, only continuing to look down at her hands.

This, the Butler begins, is a young lady who ruined her dearest friend.

* * *

_The lady and her favourite playmate were born to similarly wealthy families, but a reversal of fortune as they were growing up saw her friend orphaned and destitute. Giving in to their daughter’s pleas, the young lady’s parents allowed the now penniless girl a place in their luxurious home until she came of age, while her grown brother took a secretarial post in the city to earn their future independence._

_The girls’ friendship did not change despite their new circumstances. Living more closely than ever, it was easy for the young lady to forget her friend’s true position; certainly, her friend had always been the subdued sort, and if she was more so now, it was up to her to cheer her up. The young lady meant no harm, thinking only that her mother’s wedding ring would look perfect on her friend’s finger, but all it took was an unfortunate slip and the ring was lost forever._

_Despite her tears and protestations, her friend staunchly declared her own guilt. And which would the master and mistress have believed? A girl in her situation, surrounded by borrowed luxury she was soon to lose, would have been desperate to reclaim some of her lost splendour. Even if their daughter had taken the ring, it was surely due to the poisonous influence of such an unsuitable companion._

_While they were persuaded not to hand the unfortunate girl over to the authorities, she was turned out of the house in disgrace. She left the city with her brother soon after, and no matter how desperately she searched, the young lady never saw her friend again._

* * *

Now the young lady sits in the gloomy mansion, waiting to make amends with the girl to whom she once pledged her lifelong affection.

The Visitor ventures further into the room, relying on the Butler’s reassuring grip. Nearing the dressing table, he catches sight of the lady’s hands, unadorned but for a braided band of what might have once been daisies or some other flower on her fourth finger.

The childish keepsake is not what makes the Visitor start and step back.

“Is something wrong?” The Butler’s grip tightens. “Please, do not let go. There are rooms in the mansion more dangerous than this.”

The Visitor says nothing. They’re standing right beside the dressing table now, next to the young lady who seems entirely oblivious to their presence.

None of them are reflected in the mirror.

At his silence, the Butler pulls gently, leading them back into the hallway. As the door shuts on the fair occupant, he asks again, “Do you remember now?”

The Visitor does not, but he is beginning to understand.

Next, they descend to the cellar. While the previous rooms smelled of plant rot and mildew, the stone stairs lead them into a sharp, metallic miasma, the odour growing thicker the lower they go, thick enough to choke with each step.

The Visitor’s fingers tighten instinctively, and the Butler chuckles.

“There is nothing to fear,” he says, “so long as you don’t let go of my hand.”

The wine racks the cellar should have been filled with are shoved unceremoniously up against the walls. In their places are surgical tables, all manner of meters and other scientific devices, trays of bladed tools long since rusted useless. And all of it, all of it smelling of blood.

Only the Butler’s hand compels the Visitor to venture further. In the centre of the cellar, the soft candlelight illuminates a clearing amidst the dilapidated machinery, a space devoted to a solitary black casket. By the head of the casket, a lean figure with hair white as snow kneels in an attitude of prayer.

This, the Butler says, his teeth gleaming, is a young man who betrayed his father.

* * *

_The researcher’s son knew his father was always right. No matter what his father did, however many times he set off on long journeys and left his small son alone, however often he came home only to shut himself in his laboratory with his assistants, his research was for the good of humanity. One little boy’s feelings were nothing compared to such a noble work._

_As the child grew, he learnt to shut his eyes to some of his father’s more unsavoury methods. (He had had to teach himself many things over the years, and one more made no difference here or there.) If a late night visitor was gone before morning, their coat and hat still on the rack—if the researcher often emerged from his facilities with dark stains on his clothes—well, what did it matter? None of these people were known to the researcher’s son, and surely his father, who strove to better humanity, would not harm anyone who contributed to it._

_The researcher’s son continued to tell himself these things as the screams began._

_At first, they were infrequent enough that he was able to dismiss them. He and his father lived in relative seclusion, and the only visitors they ever had who he saw leave again were his father’s assistants. Surely, it meant that his father had been keeping quiet for his sake, and had now decided he was old enough, wise enough to be trusted with the truth._

_But before long, the noises sounded at all times of the day and night, whether the researcher was home or not. The researcher’s son was certain there was more than one voice creating that howling cacophony, but even if he had wanted to approach the door separating the residence from the laboratory, he had been warned long ago never to open that door, and his father had never rescinded that command._

_Over time, the screaming began to infect the boy’s dreams. Even when he was awake, he could no longer be sure if he was listening with his ears or his memory. Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he chose a day when his father and the assistants were away—when there was no one in the house but him and them._

_When he entered his father’s laboratory for the first time, he realised he had made a mistake. They did not always scream. Many of them sobbed, begged for their mothers, begged for the food they had been denied. Not one of them was old enough to know to beg for death._

_The researcher had been wrong about his son. He could not be trusted, after all._

* * *

The Visitor makes to approach the snowy-haired young man, to place a hand on his shoulder, to assure him that he was not in the wrong. The Butler tugs him back, his grip gentle but steel.

“Why do you pity him?” he demands, frustration breaking through his somewhat theatrical composure for the first time. “He’s not waiting for any of the victims he took so long to save—he’s waiting for his _father_.” The Butler sneers. “To _apologise_ for ruining his work.”

Still the Visitor attempts to catch the young man’s attention, to no avail.

At last, the Butler pulls him away from the scene.

“It won’t work, you know,” he says softly. “No matter how much you want to help them—they’ll only respond to the person they’re waiting for.”

There’s something about his tone, exasperated but gentle, almost fond, that catches the Visitor’s attention. Somewhere in the fog of his memory, a faint bell begins to ring.

The Visitor asks if the Butler has ever tried to help the souls in the mansion.

“I?” The Butler’s voice rises in comic surprise. “I’m just the Butler; here to serve the mansion, nothing more. After I take them to their rooms, none of these people have anything to do with me.”

The Visitor asks how the Butler came to be the Butler.

“Ah, so you wish to get to know me better, do you?” In the candlelight, the Butler’s smile appears genuinely delighted. “Very well! Let us chat somewhere a little more… palatable.”

They ascend the stone steps once more, emerging from the noxious copper tang into the stale but still breathable air of the first floor. The Butler leads the Visitor back to the parlour, helping him ease back into the armchair by the still-smouldering fire and stationing himself at his side.

“I was created by the mansion to serve,” the Butler recites smoothly. “It shows me the memories of the visitors that wash up on its shores, and I escort them to the room that calls to them. They need nothing more from me—only the arrival of the person they’re waiting for will revive them.”

The Visitor asks if the Butler is waiting for someone.

“What an idea!” The Butler sounds tickled by the thought. “I have no one to wait for. The mansion is all I have ever known.”

The Visitor asks if that is how the Butler can stand to live among such despair.

“As I say,” and the Butler smiles, a trace of mockery slipping into his tone, “I exist for the mansion. It’s just a waiting room; these people are trapped here by their own regrets and desires, and nothing you or I can do will change that. Think of it as watching a play—” he adds blithely, “—it’s not like any of it happened to _me_.”

The Visitor thinks to ask how the Butler knows what watching a play is like if he’s never left the mansion, but the malaise that seems to lift the more time he spends with him descends once more, and he sinks further into the worn armchair, pushing the question from his mind as needlessly pedantic.

Instead, the Visitor asks if _he_ is waiting for someone.

The Butler claps his hands in delight. “Oh! Do you remember now?”

Remember…

No. The Visitor does not.

The Butler’s shoulders droop. “Then I have one last tale for you. If you still don’t remember afterwards…” He sighs, his mind seeming to wander before he snaps back to himself.

“This one doesn’t have a room yet,” he says, “so you just sit right there.”

* * *

_Once, there was a family of six. They were not related by blood, but as children had all been selected from different orphanages for their prodigious displays of talent and intelligence._

_Only the eldest had any relation to their guardian, a semi-recluse with a keen interest in the study of alchemy. He had chosen his wards to assist in his research, and when he did not require them they were free to do as they pleased. The eldest, a distant cousin of his, could often be found pursuing his own studies in solitude, but as peers the six youths regarded one another as family in a way they did not their guardian, who, though not unkind, was too much of an alchemist to be a father._

_Of course, talent and intelligence did not equal diligence. As all families must have a black sheep, the youngest ward was largely considered a pest. He was both insolent and indolent, often playing truant during hours of study, preferring to nap or play rather than work in the schoolroom and laboratory. He led his family a merry dance, but despite the superficial friction between them, the youngest would have done anything for his family, for the sake of their home._

_The years passed peacefully. The alchemist seldom left home, and when he did it was only to procure rare materials and equipment. While the wards were free to leave the grounds in their leisure hours, few of them chose to do so. The mansion provided for their every whim, and within it each had their own domain, be it the serene rock garden the tallest youth often retreated to, the bubbling water features the sole girl among the six designed for the mansion grounds, or the old astronomy tower the eldest refashioned into his private study._

_One day, the eldest came home in a state of cold fury, surprising the family who had not known he had left. The alchemist was away, though his return had been expected for some days. Now, the eldest calmly informed his wards that he never would._

_The mystery surrounding the mansion and its master had long been a source of concern and fear to the villagers. Rumour had it that the master had even had children brought to him once, many years ago, and not one of them had ever been seen again. He made secret dealings, brought evil devices into his accursed abode. He caused lightning and flames to flash forth, and the night echoed with the laughter of the demons he consorted with._

_What to call such a man, if not a witch?_

_The village had lived in fear for too long. They had endured the hardships of living in a witch’s territory, but now they could stand it no more. The crops had had a poor yield, the water had dried up, all manner of disasters had befallen them. When they saw the witch leave his cursed mansion, they knew they had to act at once—for their own safety._

_It was irrational. It was desperate. It was, the eldest informed his family, what the superstitious villagers had believed when they cut the alchemist down. Just like that, their guardian was no more._

_The question of what should be done soon arose. Some proposed complete seclusion; others called for retaliation. Leaving their home behind was not an option. At last, the eldest voiced his decision. He would not allow an attack on his household to go unpunished. They were superior in intelligence, education, rudimentary combat training—all the ways that mattered. The villagers had made it clear that they would never be safe, so long as they lived in the cursed mansion, and they had one and all refused to abandon it._

_The villagers had killed a witch; now, they would learn what it was to face the collective wrath of six._

_The ensuing argument seemed to go on for hours. The family was divided, no member willing to back down on their stance. The conference ended without a decision being reached, and a pall settled over the mansion._

_The youngest was among the undecided. He did not oppose revenge, but balked at the extent of the violence the eldest proposed. All he truly wanted was a peaceful life with his family, so the days of inaction that followed suited him well, and he spent them much as he always had, lounging in odd corners and busying himself with personal projects the others had often deemed useless._

_He was asleep in the cellar when the villagers attacked the mansion. At first he believed his ‘sister’ was scolding him, as she had so often before, but as slumber left him the shouting overhead made itself clear. The eldest had not waited for them to come to a decision. He had decided for himself, decided that the wrath of one would do just as well as six. He had had his revenge._

_And now, the surviving villagers knew the witch was not dead._

_In vain did the youngest attempt to leave the cellar. The door had been barred from the outside, though whether by heavy debris or by his family he did not know. It was dawn by the time he was able to free himself, bruised and aching from the effort; the cacophony of battle had long ceased, and he knew even before he ascended the blood-soaked steps what he would find._

_He was alone._

_His home lay in ruins. Blood seemed to stream from every room, dripping down the broken staircase. Nobody alive or dead remained in the mansion._

_He was alone._

_The youngest—now the only—ward despaired. Gone was everything he had ever cared for; if he had only been present during the attack, if he had only agreed to the eldest’s plan in the first place…_

_He was under no illusions that he would have survived. But he would at least have perished with his family. He wouldn’t be alone._

_He was alone._

_He did not know what to do next. He could continue to live alone in the mansion still habitable enough for one. He could avenge his family or die in the attempt. He could not abandon his home—but was it still home, when everyone who had made it so was dead?_

_He was no Master of the house. The title had belonged to his guardian and then to the eldest, and it was not one he had ever coveted or deserved. No, to go on living alone indefinitely, surrounded by the shards of his family, would be unbearable._

_He was not foolish enough to believe he could approach the villagers by himself. But with the laboratory, which had been shut up since his guardian’s demise and which the villagers had failed to break into, he could create a new kind of weapon, a deadly chemical brew they would surely call a wicked potion._

_They had made him a Witch, and who was he to disappoint them?_

_For six months, the Witch lived alone in the quiet mansion. In the astronomy tower he found the eldest’s notes detailing similar experiments over the years, dating all the way up to the day of his revenge. Now the Witch saw what the eldest had not—an imperfect formula, one that would require much recalculation and experimentation to solve. For all his intelligence and pride, he too had been fallible. And even if it had only hastened the inevitable, it had cost their family their lives._

_The Witch had no such qualms. He had nothing left to lose._

_One day, the Witch entered the laboratory only to find it occupied. A young man stood before him, travel-stained and startled, evidently having believed the mansion to be empty. The Witch attempted to frighten him off, to threaten him, anything short of violence to force him out. But the traveller would not leave._

_The traveller had a private matter to settle, one which required the use of a well-stocked research facility. The Witch would have to use magic to convince him otherwise—and the traveller did not believe in magic._

_The laboratory’s stock of alchemical ingredients was vast, but it would not last forever. In truth, this did not concern the Witch. Even if he ran out of supplies, there were more basic concoctions he could prepare, powerful enough to destroy a small crowd within a certain distance from him. He had long ceased to value his own life. _

_No, there was just something about the traveller that made him uneasy. The traveller did not feel like an immediate threat, but the Witch would have to be a fool to think him harmless. If he could not make him leave, he would have to stay and observe him._

_Perhaps he could see the shadow of a bleak history in the traveller’s face._

_Perhaps he was simply lonely._

_Whatever the reason, the Witch and the traveller began their tenuous coexistence. It was not peaceful by any means; the traveller was cold and taciturn, ignoring his host more often than not, provoking him to petty tantrums with his sharp, dismissive tongue. In retaliation, the Witch set out to make himself a nuisance, insisting on conducting his research while the traveller was working, getting underfoot at every opportunity._

_It was not peaceful, but the Witch did not find it disagreeable. He could not go back to being the carefree youngest ward, but conversing with the traveller (or rather, annoying the traveller into acknowledging his presence) felt familiar, brought him closer to the warm days he had lost._

_Where he had initially intended to provoke his ungracious guest into leaving, he now found himself enquiring into his work out of natural curiosity. The traveller seemed to know what he was doing, but he could not achieve the desired results. Months had passed, and still he remained, whittling away at the mansion’s resources._

_The Witch had long ceased his own work. He had his original potion, and while it would not level the village and its immediate environs as the eldest had intended it would suffice if needed. He had no wish for such a destructive force. _

_More importantly, when the laboratory ran out of materials, the traveller would go away._

_The Witch could not now imagine returning to a life without the traveller. They still clashed over trivial matters, still drove one another to frustration, but there was no longer any real heat in their words. It had become something enjoyable, something the Witch looked forward to just to watch the traveller’s stony features twist into an endearing scowl, or see him smirk whenever he gained the upper hand in their arguments._

_Once, the traveller had even deigned to laugh at one of his host’s ridiculous remarks—a sound born of amusement rather than derision, and the Witch had been enchanted._

_He could not bear to be alone again. No—the traveller had become irreplaceable, and the Witch could not bear to lose everything he loved once more._

_The inevitable came to pass. The traveller remarked on the stores he had nearly emptied over the months. If his host knew where he could find more ingredients, he would replenish their stock._

_The Witch could not answer him favourably. Many of the ingredients he sought could only be procured in person in far-off lands. The Witch could not leave his home. But if the traveller left, the Witch was afraid he would never return._

_Instead, he asked again. Just what was the purpose of the traveller’s research?_

_To his surprise, the traveller did not ignore or dismiss him, as he had always done before when the subject was broached. As a small child, the traveller had been abducted and taken to a remote laboratory, where he and others his age had been periodically starved and tortured for what had felt like an eternity. Lightning had been directed into his body; assortments of various chemicals had been poured down his throat. He had forced himself to remember the labels, the apparatus, the smell and clarity and appearance; the only other things to focus on had been too terrible to endure for long. When he was finally rescued, he could remember nothing else._

_If he could not be returned to his past, he would solve the incident that had taken it from him. The traveller wished to recreate the chemical aspect to understand what had been done to him, what his captors had been trying to achieve. He had once desired vengeance, but they were long dead, the laboratory burned to the ground. This was the only way he could find peace._

_Hearing this, the Witch knew he had no right to keep him. He provided the traveller with his guardian’s papers, in which the location and market season of each ingredient was marked. He could not beg the traveller to stay._

_He would be alone._

_The traveller asked if his host had ever visited such places himself. If not, this was a fine opportunity; with two of them they would be less likely to be attacked on the roads, less likely to get lost in cities they had never seen. And, the traveller added with a wry smile, perhaps travel would make his host less irritating._

_The Witch attempted to make him understand despite the pounding of his own heart. He was a Witch, the Witch who haunted the cursed mansion. He could not pass the village that had taken his family. He could not leave the home where he had grown up._

_The traveller did not believe in Witches. He had watched his host at work, and not once had his host done anything that could not be explained by alchemical principles. If the alchemist was a Witch, that made the traveller one too. If the alchemist’s safety was threatened, they would travel by night, avoiding settlements until they came to the larger cities. As for the mansion, the only thing trapping the alchemist there was himself._

_Not a single thing remained that tied the alchemist to the mansion. His family was dead, their domains in ruins. The few keepsakes left to him could easily be carried. He did not have to leave forever, the traveller reminded him. When the villagers had forgotten, he could return if he still found it a home. But he could not remain unmoving for the rest of his life._

_And if he chose to return, the traveller would go with him, if he liked._

_The alchemist could not refuse such an offer. He could wish for nothing more than to see the world he had only read about, and go home one day with the traveller at his side. All he had ever truly wanted was a peaceful life with his family._

_But if he was to leave, preparations would have to be made. The mansion lacked any but immediate necessities, and he would not enter the village, so the traveller went for the both of them, purchasing provisions for the long journey ahead while the alchemist attempted to plot the route they were to take._

_At last, the preparations were nearly complete. The alchemist was poring over maps in the astronomy tower, waiting for the traveller to return from his final excursion. They would set out that very night, and time would move for the alchemist once more._

_When the traveller returned, it was in a breathless hurry, as if he had run up the entire spiral staircase. Before the alchemist could ask what had happened, he caught a sound all too familiar to him—the approaching clamour of stamping feet and hostile cries, the telltale hubbub of a mob._

_The alchemist froze. It was only for a second, but it was all the time the traveller needed to thrust him back into the tower room and turn the key. He must not show himself, the traveller warned through the door. The traveller had not been seen by many when he had first passed through the village many months ago, but it had been enough for him to be recognised when he reappeared without warning. It had not taken the villagers long to track him to the mansion, where the faint odour of brimstone from his last experiment still lingered._

_And now, the villagers knew the Witch was not dead._

_The alchemist begged the traveller to open the door. It was not too late. He could clear a path for them. They could still leave together. He loved him far too much to watch him die._

_The traveller refused. He could still reason with them. He only needed a chance to explain the truth. He loved him far too much to watch him kill._

_The hubbub had reached the bottom of the stairs. Then, the alchemist begged, stay in the room with him. The villagers would never listen. The traveller would not have to die alone._

_The tower echoed with heavy footfalls. The traveller had to give the villagers a chance. He could not give up without trying. He would not be alone._

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

_They were at the top of the stairs now, the traveller the only obstacle between them and the study door. They demanded he hand over the Witch._

_There was no Witch here. There never had been._

_The traveller could not be believed. He had been tainted, seduced by the Witch the night he entered the mansion all those months ago. He was no longer human; only a vessel for the Witch to wear, as he had changed skins over a year ago when they killed him twice._

_No, the wretched traveller could not be saved. But he could be stopped._

_Behind the door, the alchemist fought to be heard over the jeering din. The tumult swelled in his ears, and he could no longer distinguish individual voices. He did not need to to understand when the commotion gave way to a raucous cheer._

_Beneath the locked tower door, blood was beginning to pool._

_Once again, he had lost everything._

_In a fever, he retrieved the long-abandoned concoction he had intended to leave behind. It was nowhere near sufficiently potent to achieve the destruction the eldest had planned. But here, at the top of a tall stone tower, it was more than enough. _

_The Witch was alone._

_But not for long._

* * *

“Do you remember _now?_ ”

Yes, yes, the Visitor—

There’s someone. Someone the Visitor is looking for.

“A… Ai?”

The Butler beams. “That’s right!” He takes both the Visitor’s hands in his. “Your name is Ai.”

Something is very, very wrong.

“The mansion shows me the memories of the visitors drawn to it, but you didn’t have any when you first came.” The Butler presses the Visitor’s hands to his chest, where his heart would beat if he still had one. “Your past is the only one the mansion showed me before you arrived—it must have been the first one, before any of the others even showed up. I knew then that your despair must be stronger than anything else the mansion would ever host. I knew you would find your way here eventually, to wait for him.”

Wait for…

“For Yusaku?”

“That’s right,” the Butler coos. “But you see, I’ll tell you a little something. Nobody’s ever left this mansion. They come here and wait for centuries until they finally give up, and their stagnant souls wither away to nothing. I don’t want that for you.”

He kneels before the armchair, drawing level with the Visitor’s face. The firelight dances in his brilliant eyes, red and orange flickering in a pool of gold.

“He’s not going to come for you,” the Butler says fiercely. “You can wait here a hundred, a thousand years, and you can think of him every day until the memory’s worn out and you don’t remember his face or his voice or anything but that you loved him and he _won’t_. _Come._ ”

No—

“You don’t have to become like them.” The Butler’s voice is smooth, hypnotic, every word a promise of freedom from pain. “Be my Master. Bind your soul to me, and you can forget all about him. We both will.”

No. This isn’t right.

The mansion is startlingly familiar to the Visitor all of a sudden, as if a veil has just been lifted from his eyes.

“I… lived here once.”

“You did,” the Butler says patiently.

“… But not as the alchemist.”

“Oh?” The Butler’s golden eyes flash with mockery, a sight, the Visitor realises, that he has seen many times before. “Then who are you? Who was it who recreated this mansion? Who was it who created me?”

The veil drifts down once more, and the Visitor struggles to clear his head. He has to remember. He has to make _him_ remember, no matter how much less painful it is in the dark.

“You’re you,” he manages. “You’re Ai. That’s your name.”

“Wh—” The Butler’s eyes widen, something like terror darting beneath the surface. He doesn’t release the Visitor’s hands. “No. No, that’s not me.”

“You are,” the Visitor insists. The malaise is upon him, the fog descending to cloud his mind and steal his memory once again. But he has to try.

“I was created by the mansion! I—”

“You made this place. You’re waiting for—”

“I didn’t!” The Butler looks panicked. “I’m not! I’m no one!” His tall frame begins to tremble. “If I’m Ai—if all of it happened to _me_ —then—”

His grip crushes the Visitor’s hands, but neither of them seem to notice.

“ _Who are you?_ ”

The Visitor says nothing, too frail and disoriented to provide a response.

Eventually, the Butler composes himself, smoothing his wrinkled gloves and clearing his throat.

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to remember,” he says gently, his voice dripping with sympathy. “Twice, you suffered agonising despair. There does not need to be a third time.”

The Visitor is so, so tired. If he could just rest…

“You won’t have to suffer anymore,” the Butler promises. “If you, the rightful master of the house, bind yourself to me, we will become one entity. You won’t have to be alone.” He smiles faintly, as if a thought has just occurred to him.

“In a way, I suppose I _was_ waiting for you all along.”

The Visitor makes no reply, but his weakened fingers squeeze the Butler’s hands in acquiescence.

Gradually, the pair begin to vanish, unravelling piece by piece and joining up again to form something that will be both of them and yet neither of them at all.

“Please,” the Butler begs. “Don’t let go of my hand.”

The Visitor does not.

They will never be alone.

They will never be anything, ever again.


End file.
